


modest mountains

by miriya



Category: RWBY
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dramatic Rescue, Fluff, Fools in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Profanity, and solely tailored to flustering oz, grimm fights, hair petting, light innuendo, oz gets a memory dump, qrow's sense of humor is abysmal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: various collected cloqwork prompt fills, updated as they're finished. (latest prompt: "don't look at me like that/like what?/like you're scared of me")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: " _you can't yell at me, I'm injured_ ," for gorgeousgalatea on tumblr.

The sudden muted _thud_ of an object striking Ozpin's bedroom window might have been more startling if it hadn't become so depressingly commonplace over the last few years.

It's loud enough to jerk his drifting consciousness from the fitful half-sleep he's been chasing for the past several hours and really, he's almost grateful for that. _Just a little_ , he thinks, as he nearly stumbles over the slippers at the side of his bed — if he'd harbored any doubts about this late-night avian visitor, they're gone now, aren't they? — and immediately ratchets up his sense of caution for the last few steps between here and the unlatched pane.

( _Just a little_ , because it wouldn't be wholly unfair to place some measure of blame for Ozpin's sleeplessness at Qrow's feet in the first place.)

The night air is damp and cold, weighted with the last few hours' rainfall and the promise of a dewy morning. Ozpin grimaces as he gingerly steps over the ledge, bare feet against the slick wrought iron of the little gardener's balcony (risky, necessary), reaching already for the soggy, feathery lump of black against black in the darkness. The crow shudders and snaps his beak when Ozpin's hands slip beneath his belly and legs, and Ozpin doesn't bother to conceal his own wry smile. "If you were worried about your dignity," he murmurs, "you should have used the door."

Qrow rattles something low in his throat that Ozpin doesn't dare try to decipher — but when he cradles the bird against his bare chest to duck back inside, he feels a feathered head lean against him.

There are no further mishaps between closing the window, turning on the bedside light, and bringing Qrow to the worn settee on the far side of the room. Once he's settled and Ozpin has moved back far enough to avoid the inevitable bloom of proper limbs and mass, the transformation is sudden and without ceremony: a breath of displaced air that smells of sweat and pine needles, the errant flutter of a single black down plume as Qrow's hand smacks hard against the scrolled wood of an armrest and his head only just avoids cracking the wall on the heels of a pained, all-too human groan.

And _oh_ , but he is a mess by any definition of the word. Soaked and bloodied, bruises lining his jaw beneath a week's scruff, spreading down the side of his throat. Half his collar is torn free and plastered over what looks suspiciously like the scrape and tear of hostile teeth, his filthy, clinging shirt shredded along the flank and striped with gashes. One of his shoes is simply _gone_ , a detail that tips the almost theatrical nonchalance of his posture into absurdity.

Ozpin holds his breath to still a sigh as Qrow's mud-smeared, bloodied hand fumbles at his hip for his flask. Once retrieved, he gives it a half-hearted shake, then drops it on the cushion next to him with a rumble of discontent. "Thinned blood runs faster, you know," he admonishes gently.

"Keeps things numbed up nice, too," Qrow growls without heat.

Another immediate stalemate to the battle they pointedly do not have.

"It seems you lost something on your journey," Ozpin eventually murmurs, blinking away the last lingering traces of not-sleep as he lowers himself to the floor next to Qrow's bony knee to better survey the damage. He notices the traces of smeared blood on his own palm, and scrubs it off against his thigh like the act might be remotely useful.

Qrow's head lifts as he shifts forward, dropping again as he bends in close, almost resting against Ozpin's shoulder. A brief glimpse of teeth set in a grimace of pain, before Qrow buries it to favor him with the pale imitation of a smile instead. "Almost lost a lot more than that, Oz."

 _Obviously_.

"Perhaps it would've been wiser to make your way to a hospital," Ozpin says gently. "You know I'm no medic."

"S'alright," Qrow murmurs. "Gimme nurse Oz over the abattoir any day, thanks."

"Qrow—"

" _Look._ You were worrying.  Weren't you?" Qrow rasps something like a chuckle. "Figured I'd come save you some trouble."

It's only now that Ozpin realizes his hand is hovering a hair's breadth away from Qrow's chest, hesitant — worrying, yes. Ever the understatement, but Qrow will chafe under any more than that, and Ozpin is far too old and too pragmatic to fret like some novice huntsman's civilian bride. Qrow is hurt, but not enough to keep him from crossing half the world to make his way here. His aura is whole and stable, mending at its own leisurely pace. Qrow is _important._ To their mission, yes. To Ozpin, in ways he hasn't allowed anyone else to be in a lifetime.

He is not glass.

Ozpin worries because he is afraid of (because he cannot bear) the alternative, but his hands are steady as he begins slipping buttons from their holes, frowning over the chill of Qrow's damp skin beneath the backs of his knuckles. "You should have been back a week ago."

"You say the sweetest things," Qrow mutters, but his eyes are brighter, more aware than they'd been just a few moments ago. This close, Ozpin can see the roadmap of broken blood vessels spreading through sclera, can smell the stink of filth and sweat and old blood beneath the liquor, and spares a moment for the distress of how normal _this_ has become, too. (But those bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes are so soft now, the promise of pain eased by proximity, by the recognition of _home_. So happy to be here — right here — despite everything.)

Ozpin says nothing, but he's cautious as he peels ruined cloth back from the wreck of Qrow's shoulder and guides his shirt down his arms. Qrow hisses in discomfort but remains pliant in Ozpin's hands, submitting to examination with little more than the careful tilt of his head. Ozpin doesn't recognize the pattern of marks and gouges, and something churns unpleasantly in his gut at the realization.

"Finding Winter was a bust, Oz; froze my balls off for nothing but a taste of Mantle misery and Jimmy's ugly mug. Says hi, by the way."

"James didn't do this," Ozpin says, and touches the reddened skin stretched over Qrow's collarbone, just below a deeper tear.

"Yeah, well," Qrow sighs, and swallows around an uneasy silence. It's so easy to read the hesitation as guilt. "Got blown off-course, heading back. Damned coastal winds."

That churning sensation redoubles, creeps its own icy fingers up his spine. "West, I presume."

Qrow's answer is a noncommittal grunt.

Ozpin pulls away, leaning back on his heels, a sharp rebuke already on his lips; immediately, Qrow's eyes snap to his, widening, chin lifting — not quite  _defiant_ , but reflexively unapologetic in a way that's so like Raven was, the shock of it is almost physical. "You can't yell at me," Qrow grumbles, deflating as he gestures vaguely from neck to hip. "I'm injured."

(Qrow is _important_. And for all his claims to mastery, he is not ready for—)

"I wasn't going to yell," Ozpin breathes, a slow, controlled exhale. "You know what I've told you, Qrow. You should understand _why_ by now, if nothing else."

"Wasn't my fault," Qrow says, and fumbles for one of Ozpin's hands, twining their fingers loosely together. "Listen. Fly or drown, Oz — wasn't much of a choice at all, in the end."

"And you wonder why I'm so inclined to worry for you," Ozpin says, but he doesn't pull away, not even when Qrow tilts forward to close that last sliver of distance between them, to bury his cold nose beneath his jaw, lips pressed solid over the leisurely flutter of his pulse.

"No," Ozpin feels the word more than he hears it, a wash of warmth to counteract the cold stealing through the rest of him at the thought of what could have been. "I don't."

It's so easy to feel disarmed, when Qrow lays down his own defenses in offering, again and again. Cautiously, he slips his free arm along Qrow's uninjured side, ignoring the wet and the cold to simply hold him close for a little while. A selfish moment, walled away from mission reports and eternal threats and all the rest: just the two of them in a room that could stand to be a few degrees warmer, just the steady comfort of two discordant heartbeats stuttering into alignment, an aching sense of camaraderie borne of exhaustion and mutual care. Dirty fingers skim up between Ozpin's shoulder blades to thread into the fine hair at the nape of his neck, and he isn't sure whether the slow sigh of total contentment Qrow breathes against his skin breaks his heart or strengthens it.

But also, Qrow is shivering now that he's settled a while. "I need a drink," he mutters, though he doesn't move. The words don't shatter the moment, but certainly draw it back into sharper focus.

"You need a bath," Ozpin says.

"Fair enough," Qrow says, and there's an immediate mischievous undercurrent threading through his voice that leaves Ozpin rolling his eyes before he even has the chance to hear what comes next. "Been too long since I got properly undressed by that stuffy old headmaster, anyway."

Ozpin huffs a laugh. "It's barely been six weeks, Qrow."

A grunt of agreement. "Like I said. But this?" Qrow's fingers stroke down his neck, nails scratching light over the curve of his naked back, sparking a little shudder of involuntary pleasure that all the decorum in the world can't still. "This is nice. I can work with this."

"You can work on getting better, first — and then, perhaps, we'll see. As you said, you're _injured_."

Qrow chuckles, quiet and fond. "You sure know how to motivate a guy, Oz. Been a lot worse, y'know."

"You've been much better, too," Ozpin points out. "And I'd rather not spend the next week cleaning blood from my sheets, thank you."

"Good thing I've got a lovely nurse on hand to bandage me up, then," Qrow says, and Ozpin laughs for real as he gently disentangles himself from Qrow's chilly grasp, putting some necessary distance between them before he allows himself to be swayed by Qrow's singular brand of relentless persuasion. It's so good to see him like this, soft around the edges, playful in his relief to be home. (Dwelling less on Ozpin's frustration over the danger he'd so obviously gotten himself into, and more on the obvious advantages of returning unharmed.)

"Good thing you do, yes," Ozpin murmurs, and braces his palm against the lip of the couch to push himself upright. Again, Qrow's hand finds his, pale against his skin in the yellow light — warmer, thankfully, than he had been.

"Hey." Neither the bruises along Qrow's jaw, nor the shadows beneath his eyes detract from the unshuttered warmth of his crooked smile. For the span of a heartbeat or two, Ozpin considers this — not a new observation by any means, but one that manages to catch him off-guard all over again, every time he thinks he's grown familiar. How could anyone stand against it?

Ozpin tilts his head, waiting.

"I missed you, Oz," Qrow says simply. "I missed you." And then he's struggling to find his feet as well, steadying only when Ozpin ducks beneath his arm and gathers Qrow up against his side, waiting for the familiar drop of a dark head on his shoulder before he considers their first tentative step.

(How could he have turned away?)

"I missed you, too," Ozpin sighs, and doesn't fight the smile he feels tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Welcome home."


	2. you are the most important person in my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozpin gets a collective memory dump and shows up on Qrow's couch in search of a little company. But when it comes to Oz, Qrow has always been a bit of an overachiever, so of course he thinks he can do better than that. Also, gun-dog. :D For the prompt _you are the most important person in my life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I took a liiiiiittle bit of artistic liberty with the prompt-as-dialog part, since I had a hard time imagining either of them saying it verbatim -- despite, y'know, showing it in pretty much everything they do. This one kinda got away from me and puffed up to ride the full spectrum of emotions despite being meant as a heckin fluff prompt ... but the overall outcome is soft and pretty fluffy, I think, so we're ok. 
> 
> Super slight warning for uh, super slight mentions of ancient homophobic religious sects. A little bit of angst, a little bit of off-color humor, a little bit of Qrow-flavored paranoia, and a lot of loving hair-stroking and unabashed adoration. I'm only slightly sorry. <3

There are a small number of things Qrow expects to find waiting for him in his rathole of an apartment: the dirty, chipped tumbler left on the counter from yesterday's night cap, the dust bill slipped through the mail slot and resting somewhere totally inconvenient on the pitted, peeling floor. Maybe the dull light from the grimy lamp next to his curb-rescued sofa — assuming, of course, he remembered to turn it on. A nip in the air and a whole lot of solitude, mostly.

What he isn't expecting is the sight of Oz sitting primly on one side of that grungy sofa, those ridiculous glasses drooping precariously low on the tip of his nose as he flips over a sheet of hand-drawn schematics from the neat pile in his lap.

Qrow hesitates in the doorway, surprised to stillness by the sight of him — not an unwelcome sight, never that — but an unexpected one, particularly when outfitted in a worn-out Beacon hoodie and what looks suspiciously like the closest thing to sweatpants he's been caught near in his entire collective existence. 

Oz lifts his head, and offers a faint, tired smile. "Good evening, Qrow. Please forgive the trespass; I hope I wasn't presumptuous."

Huh. "Can't call it trespassing when I gave you the damn key, Oz." It's enough to get Qrow moving, nudging the door closed with his elbow while he tries to keep the bag dangling from his wrist from knocking against the little table beside him.

"Forgive my nosiness, then," Oz says, and honestly, it'd sound a little indulgent if it weren't for the oddly muted timbre of his voice. Qrow knows that sound, unwelcome thing that it is, and mentally crosses _dignified booty call_ from his list of potential reasons why Oz is currently parked on his shitty couch, maybe-apparently waiting for him and scattering apologies for it like it isn't the best thing that's happened to Qrow all day. "I didn't think you'd mind me taking a peek."

He shrugs because it's easier than letting Oz grope around in search of a sword to fall on, and heads for the kitchenette across the room to dump the weekend's groceries. "Inventive little shits, aren't they?"

"There's nothing quite like the imagination of a child," Oz says philosophically, and Qrow would roll his eyes if it weren't for the sliver of brightness he hears there. It's not that Qrow doesn't feel the warm and fuzzy vibes when it comes to the brats he spends his days wrangling, it's not that he doesn't spend plenty of his own free time thinking about Ruby and Yang and their precocious flavors of mayhem — but he doesn't bask in it like Oz does. (Qrow still finds himself surprised and relieved in equal measure that Oz doesn't have his own litter tucked away in some posh corner of Vale, silver-haired and obnoxiously brilliant, dressed sharp as a small army of porcelain dolls. Makes it easier, this way.)

"Well, sure," Qrow says, and tucks the fresh bottle of whiskey behind the box of hot chocolate packets he keeps for just this sort of occasion, "but if Yang can make 'gun-dog' work out without an infusion of Atlas tech, _then_ I'll admit to being impressed. Until then? It's just nightmares."

Oz chuckles as he shuffles through the stack of papers for the appropriate schematic, and Qrow feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. It's a good sound; makes the place feel a little more homey. Makes him worry a little less. He fills the kettle, then goes searching for a clean mug.

"I believe the, er, sword tail is a thoughtful addition," Oz murmurs. "As are the — does that say dagger spines?"

"Sure does," Qrow says.

"Are we certain she's familiar with the concept of dogs, Qrow?"

"Tai won't let her get a puppy."

A pause, followed by a tactful _ah_. It sets a vaguely whimsical tone for the next few minutes, the two of them trading stories of academic misadventures and students fully convinced of being far more clever than they are. Qrow keeps one eye on the kettle, the other on the life seeping back into Oz's expression, those pale smiles tilting into wistful territory, then fond. As sentimental as he knows it is, it feels like a privilege to see the shift.

And so it's not without some regret that once he's pressed the chipped mug of hot chocolate into Oz's hands and taken a seat next to him, he has to ask: "couldn't sleep?"

Oz's expression slips a little, eyes dropping to the mug between his hands. Qrow braces himself with a long pull from his flask while he waits, and tells himself he doesn't regret the question. "Memories, surfacing. It has been a while."

Oh. _Well_. Qrow understands, as much as he knows he doesn't understand. He'd asked about it once, when he was finally comfortable enough to pose the question and Oz was comfortable enough to talk about it — and he'd learned that all these years later, Oz is still learning the details of the people he's been. Like an amnesiac recovering pieces of themselves, on an impossible scale. He'd apologized for sounding crazy, and maybe it sounded exactly that bad, but Qrow had done his best to offer what support he could. 

Of all the things that Qrow is willing to bear for him, he's painfully aware that this is well beyond his capabilities. But his pleasantly sodden brain is quick enough to point out that despite that, Oz is here. Oz came looking for _him_ , and that's got to mean something. It _feels_ like it means everything.

"You could've sent me a message," he says quietly. "Would've been back a lot faster if I'd known I had someone waiting for me."

Oz shakes his head. "You have your own life to live, Qrow."

"Figure I've made it pretty clear that I've made a lot of room in there for you, old man."

That gets a soft huff of a laugh, though whether it's for the sentiment or the name, Qrow doesn't know. He wonders if it's wrong to treasure this — the immaculate, unfazeable Professor Ozpin poured out on his couch with all the grace and poise of a crumpled bar napkin, staggeringly human beneath a halo of dirty light. Not the bad parts, but the fact that he's allowed to have this to himself.

(Qrow's always been a little greedy, that way.)

"You have," Oz agrees hesitantly. "But I still dislike … imposing."

Qrow shrugs, and chooses to meet that vaguely uncomfortable look with the most irreverent wink in his arsenal to convey just what he thinks of _that_. "I've jumped at worse reasons to spend a little time with you." It says a lot to him, that Oz never seems to come out of these little episodes feeling _good_ but — well, that's what Qrow's for, isn't it? The corner of Oz's lips quirk briefly around the rim of the mug, and Qrow decides he's going to tally it in his favor. 

Best to just roll with it, in any case. He scoots a little closer to retrieve the pile of papers from Oz's lap and sets them on the low table in front of them. "What's the damage? Too much, or too heavy?"

Surprisingly, Oz _does_ smile at that, not placating but warm and fond and proud and Qrow feels a piece of himself go incandescent at the sight of it. "Your perceptiveness still surprises me, sometimes."

"Hey," Qrow says. "Listen. There's this good-looking guy I know who runs this outfit up the hill; has a knack for teaching young fools how to be people. Guess a little bit of him must've rubbed off on me." The effort is immediately rewarded with a flush of color high along Oz's cheeks and another quiet laugh, and Qrow decides that _definitely_ counts as a point in his favor. 

"I have it on good authority that the, ah, _rubbing off_ is quite mutual, Mr. Branwen."

"Well," Qrow drawls and nudges at Oz's knee with his own, "he can rub whatever he wants on me, whenever he likes. Especially once he's answered my question."

"I feel justified in pointing out that _you're_ the one derailing the conversation."

 _Sure_ , Qrow thinks, _but you were feeling better for it, weren't you?_ Another shrug, just as unconcerned as the last. "I'm gonna blame you, anyway. So might as well just get it out there — unless you don't want to. But I think you might, since you're here."

"Forgive my dissembling," Oz says, and doesn't quite blanch at the look Qrow sends his way. Instead, he takes another drink and then sets the cup on the table, and draws his hands into his lap as he turns to face Qrow. "Very well. I believe the correct answer is — both. Perhaps not a matter of weight, but the demand for _recognition_." 

"Bet it's gotta feel pretty crowded up there," Qrow says, and reaches over to press fingertips against Oz's temple. He doesn't really mean to linger, but those honey-gold eyes slip focus and then fall closed, and Oz is turning his face against Qrow's palm and it hardly seems an adequate gesture. He doesn't really understand, but he can be here. He can be _now_. 

"For the time being, yes."

"Let me help," Qrow says, quiet and certain.

"Your presence is a great help already," Oz says 

"Sure," Qrow murmurs, "but I think I can do better than that. Tell me something — anything. Something the world has forgotten."

Oz's eyes open, and Qrow reads the surprise there. Sure, yeah, it won't _fix_ anything — but maybe it'll help ease the burden. "Recognition, right?"

Long fingers find his wrist, curl gently around it. In the silence, Qrow watches the debate flicker across Oz's face; the old man is good at drawing his secrets in around him, forming defenses to keep the world at a comfortable distance. He knows there are plenty of good reasons for it — sane reasons, reasonable reasons.

"Are you certain?" 

"It doesn't need to be bad," Qrow says. 

But if it is, he'll take it.

 

\--

 

"There was a settlement of scholars, west of what would one day be Mistral. People were still learning what was possible with dust, you see, and the nature of those experiments could be quite dangerous. We assumed an experiment has gone wrong. The settlement was consumed by fire, and the ensuing conflagration was beyond anything anyone had ever seen before. The work of an angry god, some whispered. The work of fools. It spread through the forests; took everything in its path. You could see the glow of it from the shores of Solitas, taste the ash in the air. I — _he_ had — an uncle there, I think."

They've settled comfortably together; Qrow with his feet propped up on the coffee table, Oz with his head resting in Qrow's lap, stretched out longer than the couch can hope to accommodate, but seemingly unconcerned with the fact. Qrow says nothing, watching the distant look on Oz's face as he eases his way into the current of resurrected memories. He wonders if it's a relief or a burden to offer them up. 

He wonders if Oz would tell him the truth if he asked. 

"Years later, I went to see what became of that settlement. Of course, I was aware that bandits and scavengers had probably picked it over already, but perhaps I could find some clue to what happened. While I traveled through the bones of this old forest, I witnessed all the ways life was returning — animals hiding in the new grass, nests in the husks of dead trees. And in time, I came across a basin, crowded with the bluest flowers I've ever seen. The sight of it was breathtaking; a vast ocean in the middle of this scene of total devastation. I walked among them for hours, awed. Humbled by the reminder of the ... resilience in this world. A reminder I sorely needed at the time."

"Sounds to me like being a total sap is one of those common traits you share," Qrow murmurs without mockery, absently stroking fingers through the mussed tumble of Oz's hair. He watches the startled beginning of a faintly self-conscious smile, and smiles back to soften any sting. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Perhaps so," Oz says. "I wonder if they're still there? Surely not in such numbers, but …"

"I can swing over, next time I'm in the area," Qrow says. "Bring you back a bouquet. You'll love it."

Oz's chuckle is quiet and fond and yeah, Qrow's pretty sure this maybe wasn't a shitty idea, after all. A bittersweet story, all things considered, but he'd learned early that when it comes to Oz, sometimes that's the best he can hope for. "I would, yes. But — that was a very, very long time ago."

"Still worth a shot; resilience, and all that. Got another one?"

Oz's lips press together in a thin line, his eyes closing once more as he dredges through the accumulation of lifetimes. Qrow waits, pleased by his own patience, telling himself that he won't be disappointed by a refusal. Maybe it was small — a story about flowers, of all things — but he knows that it's a gift. A secret between them. If it's enough to satisfy Oz, then it's enough to satisfy him.

"You'd be surprised, I think," Oz says abruptly, "by some of the strange customs and beliefs that people used to hold. There was once a very … socially conservative sect of individuals, who believed that faunus were the result of, ah, improper breeding."

"That some kind of polite way of saying getting frisky with the local wildlife?"

Oz smiles and shakes his head. "No, though that was certainly a prevalent theory for quite some time. I meant — children born out of wedlock, or to unfaithful women. Men who took men as lovers."

It's absurd enough to make Qrow laugh for real. "Haven't had your kittens yet, Oz; think we can safely throw that last one out." The immediate flush that washes across Oz's face makes the joke _absolutely_ worth it, and Qrow grins down at Oz's stricken expression, utterly unrepentant.

"Yes, well — superstition was quite a powerful thing then, and anatomical understanding still woefully underdeveloped, as you can imagine. But the fascination for the taboo remained, and presented itself in equally strange ways, particularly when it came to animals. Which is context for how I ended up traveling across what would become Vacuo's deserts to present the King of Canopy with the gift of a pair of mated black swans on the day of his marriage."

"Oh boy," Qrow murmurs, and resumes carding his fingers slowly through Oz's hair. "Bet that was an adventure in itself."

"Yes, but I was well prepared. As an advisor to another petty king who was allied with Canopy, I had the appropriate entourage, of course — and Vacuo was still unspoiled then, most of its people far more interested in trade than conflict. The jungles at the desert's edge were magnificent then, rising up out of the sands like a dream; a seemingly endless, intimidating wall of green and deep shadows. The palace there at the boundary felt more like a temple than anything else, well matched to how its occupants saw themselves."

Qrow hums quietly, falling into the smooth cadence of Oz's voice — feeling sedate but attentive, not so different at all from how he'd been all those years ago when the backdrop to Oz's lectures was a dusty blackboard and a class full of restless students, and the idea of lounging in some shitty apartment with Oz's head in his lap and his skin beneath Qrow's fingertips was too unbelievable to feature in even his most chaste fantasies. The thoughts come, unbidden: what it must feel like to look upon a world and know its shifts so intimately, to recall ancient, forgotten history as the present. He lets them slip by without more than cursory recognition, thumbing open the lid to his flask one-handed to take a pull before he tucks it between the cushions and settles again.

Oz pauses when Qrow's hand rests lightly on his chest, over the faded image of crossed axes, and Qrow feels him glance up in search of a cue before continuing on. "The ceremony was, for the most part, a rather predictable affair. Ostentatious in the ways of men trying to impress their betters; days of feasting and tournaments before the wedding itself — even a demonstration of the kingdom's finest gladiator against a death stalker, with nothing more than a simple spear and shield."

"How'd that turn out?" Qrow asks by instinct.

"Well enough, more or less, for the gladiator. Less so for the death stalker." Oz's expression darkens in disapproval. "And the dozen servants who died capturing it in the first place. But so things were, then. After the ceremony itself, there was another feast, and the presentation of gifts. Chests of dust crystals from the southern mines, bolts of fine woven cloth, mounts and weapons … and finally, the swans."

"Sounds a bit out of place, compared to the other stuff."

Oz hums a quiet sound of amusement. "You have no idea, Qrow. They were rare birds, all but unheard of in that part of the world. They were intended to be a sign of good fortune, as well as a reminder of the new queen's distant homeland. However, there was a — slight problem, one I never learned was intentional or not. One that I was quite unfortunately unaware of. You see, both of these swans were male."

Qrow can't help his own startled laugh, unsure if he should feel guilty for it. "Whoops."

"Of course, the court was scandalized. I learned later that, despite being an adherent to that sect, the King of Canopy had long been involved with a servant, and their relationship was his closest-guarded secret. Thus, this particular gift — on his wedding day, no less — was seen as a terrible insult at best, and an outright threat of exposure at worst. Our entire entourage was bound and thrown into the prison beneath the palace for daring to disgrace him."

"Black birds are never a good omen for anyone, Oz."

"I disagree," Oz says, "but in this case, you are correct."

"Hope you got out all right," Qrow says.

"Eventually, yes. Released into the dead of night by that same servant, the night he fled the palace."

When Oz lapses back into silence, Qrow wonders if he should prod for the rest of the story — why the servant fled, whether or not the man that would eventually become Oz returned to his king. He studies the shadows cast by the long sweep of Oz's eyelashes on his cheeks, analyzes the thoughtful tilt of his mouth, the deep lines creasing his forehead before Qrow smooths those away with a slow sweep of his thumb. _No_ , he decides. _Not this time_.

"Feeling any better?" Qrow asks quietly.

Oz doesn't open his eyes, but he smiles faintly; Qrow smiles back, tipping his hand to brush the corner of his lips. It doesn't really seem appropriate to consider a moment like this _nice_ , but Oz _seems_ like he feels better, and the peaceful lull between them is — well. It's just.

It's _nice_.

"Not so long ago," Oz says, and his voice is softer now, slipped loose from that earlier professorial cadence, "I had fairly recently assumed the helm of a huntsman academy. That other part of me — the part that had dreamed them into existence — had been so content then, surrounded by the fruits of his labor and the students that would carry his hopes into the future. The beginning of a new year, a beautiful afternoon, a courtyard full of bright-eyed first years milling about before the start of the day's classes. I could sense the excitement and nervousness in the air. As I walked among them, I encountered the most unexpected, most … remarkable sight."

Oz pauses to laugh, a quiet, mischievous sound that immediately sets Qrow's sense of suspicion tingling. "Oh, no."

"And there near the statue, I saw one of our newest students — one whose name I could not quite recall at the time, but whose reputation preceded him to some small degree. I had been cautioned to be wary of trouble, but … well. What I recall thinking in that moment, was that his skirt was certainly far shorter than Beacon's dress code suggested."

"A _kilt_ , Tai said. Still can't believe that idiot fell for it. Gotta say, though — gained a few new members to the fan club that day." Qrow resists the urge to reach for his flask in remembrance, curls his hand loosely over Oz's heart instead.

"Color me completely unsurprised," Oz murmurs. "He certainly had a talent for standing out."

"Well," Qrow says, "took you long enough to get on board."

"He was a child, Qrow." Qrow wrinkles his nose, but hums a tired-sounding assent — what had been years of hopeless fantasies at the time would have been a horror, fulfilled. More so, now that he knows what it's like from the other side, though he's pretty sure the starry-eyed adoration of the occasional hip-high pipsqueaks has nothing at all on the unchecked hormonal disaster of a horny teenage boy with a vivid imagination and a loyalty streak a continent long.

"But," Oz continues after a moment. "As you may have deduced by now, I can be far more adept at looking to the past than the future. While I maintain that it was for the best in this particular circumstance … perhaps if it were not so, I might have seen that boy, and had some premonition of what he would become."

"A complete idiot?" Qrow asks wryly. He can feel the moment Oz opens his eyes, can feel the weight of his attention on his skin like something tangible, but he doesn't look back. He's been pretty good about not giving Oz reasons to get on him for those oft-inebriated moments of maudlin self-doubt, and doesn't mean to, now. It's a joke — not a good one, but he hopes Oz understands all the same.

He feels Oz's cool fingers close over his hand and squeeze briefly. "A vital piece of that future we fight for. To me —to the selfish part I reserve solely for myself — the most treasured piece of all."

Qrow feels his throat go dry at how matter-of-fact the admission comes, swallows hard around a pang of emotion that steals both his breath and any knee-jerk response right out of his head and sends it spiraling into the ether. Because Qrow knows. He _knows_. It's what keeps him going when he's spitting up his own blood in some faraway land, what keeps his wings beating when he's emptied out and exhausted and the promise of the black sea beneath him is a siren song of mercy. It's what makes the excuses and the wide berth he so often gives that beautiful little cottage on Patch that feels more like home than this dingy rat-hole will ever be something a little more bearable.

(He knows he's not a complete idiot, not in the ways that really matter. Oz has made sure he understands that much.)

But to give voice to it is something else entirely. Feels like baring a throat to a beowolf, or a bandit, or the world.

For a moment, he stays completely still, eyes up and tense and half-waiting for the familiar crack of ceramic against linoleum, the crunch of a nail giving up the ghost to dump some some cared-for photo to the floor in a crunch of wood and glass. But there's only the quiet around them, the quickened rasp of his own breath too loud in his ears; a rustle of cloth as Oz tilts his head, watching still.

Qrow bends to press a kiss to Oz's forehead, feeling all that love well up like a drowning wave. "Y'know, that guy up the hill I was talking about?" he whispers, and his voice cracks like a rib, and his hand turns beneath Oz's to twine their fingers together tightly because it means _me, too_. "Total fuckin' sap. Wouldn't — wouldn't change a thing about him, though."

"I think," Oz says, barely more than wash of warm breath against Qrow's cheek, "in some ways — perhaps you have, already."

"Maybe you're right," Qrow huffs as he sits back, only just enough to finally meet Oz's eyes. "Looks like your fashion sense took the most recent hit. Can't believe you stole _that_ shirt — wondered where it went."

Oz cracks a toothy grin, and that feels like a gift, too. "Can't call it stealing when you left it on my floor, Qrow."

"Guess you've got a point, there." He's starting to relax a little, now that the world hasn't come crashing down around their ears to right the state of things after Oz's casual proclamation. No goons through the doors. Not even sirens in the distance.

"You are, of course, more than welcome to reclaim it at your earliest convenience," Oz says. "If you still meant what you said, earlier." 

It's a different kind of peace offering — the kind of understanding that makes Qrow feel weak in ways he stopped fearing years ago. When he dips down to kiss Oz again, it's a proper kiss, soft and sweet and terribly grateful, weighted only by all those things he doesn't dare say too directly. Oz is coming alive against him, a hand skimming up the bend of his arm, curling into his sleeve. An invitation.

And maybe, Qrow thinks, what he needs to remember is this: it doesn't have to be bad.

(But if it is, he'll still take it.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "don't look at me like that."  
> "like what?"  
> "like you're afraid of me."
> 
> The fam's beach day is cut short by some unwelcome visitors, and Qrow calls for backup. He should know to expect the unexpected when it comes to Ozpin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god who the heck put this prompt in a *fluff* prompt list? I took the gentlest route I could, though. please forgive my complete and total inability to write rwby fight scenes, and the gratuitous speculation over cool shit Oz can do. qrow curses up a storm, internally and externally. (and big huge thank you to lise for being so patient with my rambling and flailing and brainstorming; you're an absolute gem, and I appreciate you just a whole whole bunch. <3)

Qrow is already starting to regret the call. Not because he doesn't need the help (because he does, because he's good and he knows it but there's a trio of fucking sphinxes swarming this little section of sleepy Patch coastline), but because Oz has a way of being heinously unpredictable right when Qrow least expects it.

Who'll it be this time? Port and a herd of fourth-years? Bart and his high-key pyromania? Gods forbid — Glynda? He'll never hear the end of it.

He's not too proud to admit to himself that really, _really_ can use a hand, though — especially with Tai pounding dirt with the girls, hopefully a few miles away by now. Qrow deliberately doesn't spend much time on the thought of salvation, mostly because the fear of his little excuse for a family getting caught out by the swarm is making for a pretty good grimm magnet. Better him than them, better him than whatever it is they're heading for to begin with. Hardly a thing on the island that isn't Signal, and — oh yeah, there's a nice little spike of worry to turn those ugly plated heads in his direction all over again.

Not that there's much time to analyze the motives of unfathomable demon beasts or the crazy bitch in charge of them; he's too busy straddling that delicate balance between trying to put the hurt on and doing his best to stay alive. One sphinx? Not _that_ hard, at least on a good day. A little more tricky when they're airborne, but he's gotten pretty good at playing to his own unique advantages. Two? A definite jump in difficulty, what with all the quick-moving bits.

Three? Well, there's a reason Harbinger's blocked far more attacks than dished them out in the last half hour.

At least two are favoring him by staying on the ground, which means they're probably younger and hopefully stupider for it. Easier to manage numbers that way, letting them try to circle him. It's mostly academic, at least in theory: dodge the jaws and wings, avoid the fireballs, dance through the swinging claws, watch the tail and wait for the right chances to strike for vulnerable spots. Not _easy_ , not by any interpretation of the word, but manageable.

Mostly. Qrow's never been fond of poisonings. Or burns. Or — yeah, anything these grimm have on offer, really.

He's taking cover behind what's left of a once-sturdy palmetto when he hears the unnatural, unmistakable hum of an incoming bullhead over the crack of splintering timber. A moment to take quick stock of the situation: two tails and a wing down and scattered to the winds, the third sphinx skyborne but missing the better part of both forelegs, making up for it by attempting to set Qrow, the beach, and the rapidly disintegrating treeline ablaze with intermittent balls of fire. 

Good to know the cavalry's arrived. Good to see it won't look like he's been slacking off entirely in the meanwhile, even if his kill count is currently wretchedly flat.

Qrow takes a steadying breath, quickly wipes his hands dry on his thigh, and dives back into the fray — won't do at all for some unlucky fireball to burn _that_ bird from the sky, and with him around? Always a possibility. He catches sight of the dropship in his peripheral vision as he darts out across the open ground, spares a glance to see it circling the edge of the engagement zone.

_Think about the girls, asshole._

A fireball turns the sand to his left into a patch of muddy glass. Qrow ducks under the wide swing of a pale tail, raking his scythe across the flank of the offending sphinx and finding grim satisfaction in the scattering of black smoke that billows from the wound — a sentiment cut short a heartbeat later when that tail lashes like a whip and strikes him square between the shoulders, sending him somersaulting across the beach like a thrown doll.

Qrow rises, spitting out wet sand; rolls away from the path of another fireball and lifts his head to glare at the offending grimm hovering some fifteen meters off the shore.

Which is when he sees it: a streak of green and silver descending from the fast-retreating dropship, arrow-straight and beautifully precise as it connects with the sphinx, setting the thing shrieking with surprise and rage. The heavy plating along its skull cracks wide open, loud as a gunshot, and Qrow breathes a fervent curse as his attention is drawn back to his own more immediate opponents some ways away on the beach, both twisting to face him in the wake of a fresh jolt of outright fear for the fact that he's apparently traded three miserably precious things for one.

(He supposes — yeah, okay, it's absolutely time to regret the call. _Mostly_.)

"What the _fuck_ , Oz," Qrow snarls as Beacon's headmaster drops gracefully to the sand just a few feet away from him, shedding black smoke as he straightens to his full height.

A jaunty twirl of a cane in his peripheral vision, but Qrow can't spare any more attention than that, occupied as he with his own charge to meet a creature several times his size and somehow even crankier. The other grimm is already loping towards them, and Qrow wishes, not for the first time in his life, for a useful semblance. One of the clone types, maybe, to make of himself a proper wall. "You called, did you not?"

Less fireballs, now — whatever Oz had done to the bastard in the air, it had worked. _Show-off_. Qrow takes a half-second to be grateful for that, and then he's diving to avoid a lunge, drawing the sphinx and its destructive radius away from Oz. Hoping the cocktail of sentiment roiling in his gut might pull enough attention his way to let Oz remain peripheral in the fray. "Wasn't a personal invitation—"

Oz's quiet laughter is cut short by his own evasive maneuvers, and for a moment Qrow regrets that he can't spare the attention to watch. He hasn't seen Oz in action since he was hardly more than a student, but it had been — beautiful. Artistic, as far as fighting can be called that. Oz fights like a dancer, graceful in ways Qrow could never hope to imitate with a weapon the size of Harbinger, clever as only a man with the accretion of countless lifetimes in his bones can be. "Perhaps I missed you."

Qrow's nearly caught by the sudden twist of a huge black body, and he throws himself into a transformation to avoid the snap of those massive jaws. The cat-and-mouse game he's been playing with the grimm has taken its toll, stretching his aura thin, leaving him breathless and aching all over. It doesn't matter, though; Oz is _here_ , dancing his way around his own sphinx, and Qrow will be damned if he lets himself fail now. Not just for himself — 

When he shifts back into a human shape a dozen meters in the air, scythe at the ready, he's dismayed to see that his chosen target has followed his movement and is already loping across the sand in preparation for flight. He glances down, re-evaluates — adjusts his angle and lets Harbinger's weight guide his momentum.

The blade bites deep into the spine of Oz's sphinx, between its one good wing and the jagged remains of the one Qrow had taken much earlier. A hard enough hit that it's _got_ to matter. The grimm jerks its head back as it rears up; Qrow grunts in pain as bony plate catches him across the bridge of his nose and he hears the impact reverberate inside his skull as his vision explodes in a flash of blinding white, merciful _fuck_ — 

He doesn't see the whipping tail that catches him across his ribs with the force of a battering ram, a final _fuck you_ from the disintegrating grimm that sends him crashing once more across the beach as the tattered remains of his aura shatter like brittle glass.

 

It's … quiet.

For a long moment, Qrow doesn't open his eyes. There's a bleary, dizzy-edged scene burned into his mind's eye that he's not quite done with: the sudden descent of the remaining sphinx, churning sand in its wake as it approaches at speed, jaws open. The sudden, desperate realization as his foot scrabbles weakly over the ground beneath him that he's out of aura and out of air, that his shitty luck's caught up to him at last despite nothing left within to sustain it, that he's not going to get up in time, that this is _it_. He raises his chin, teeth bared in defiance, more angry than anything else because _what a stupid way to go_. 

And then a sudden jolt of contact, a body lurching into his, a strong, lean arm slung tight across his aching chest as Oz leans against him, half-shielding Qrow as his other arm extends to jab his cane like a rapier and around them the world sparks brilliant colors and something in his brain lurches like the shock of vertigo — 

Close by, he hears the rustle of cloth, the slight pop of a joint as Oz loosens his hold and pulls back.

Qrow draws an uneven, incomplete breath and raises his head, lets that image go as he opens his eyes. _Oz_ , tousled but whole and undamaged, the wry curl of a smile tilting the corner of his lips as he looks over at Qrow from where he's leaned back on his haunches, looking every bit as at ease here as he is behind his desk. For a moment, Qrow can't take his watery eyes off of him — couldn't, _wouldn't_ for all the lien on Remnant.

But the functional fragment of his animal brain that isn't busy reminding Qrow of how absolutely smitten he is or how unreal Oz looks limned in sunlight and all but glowing from exertion, is taking stock of the details of their surroundings, and eventually the rest of him catches up, too. He pulls his stare away, turns to the charred wreck of the forest's edge. Or … what _was_. 

There's a clear radius surrounding them — a good fifty yards or so in every direction — that's visibly different. No mark of fire or shattered trees or kicked up sand, but an arc of saplings edging the treeline, the sparse coastal grasses leading up to the verge grown thicker and differently textured. The sandline has shifted closer to the shore, and the shore itself cuts a rough yard further into the water along the circle's edge, bearing a patch of boulders that _definitely_ hadn't been there before. The splashes of glass in the sand are gone, the last sphinx is gone; in fact, there's no sign there'd been a fight at all. 

Only — this _change_.

Qrow's attention shifts to Oz again, eyes widening in shock as his mind stutters and attempts to process what's around him. He's seen plenty of crazy, impossible shit in his life, especially since joining up with Oz's little group, but this is — 

This is — 

Oz extends a hand. Hesitates for a few heartbeats and then draws back, bowing his head as he reaches for his cane instead.

Qrow stares. 

Oz doesn't look any different. Qrow doesn't _feel_ any different beyond the beating, and that's familiar enough to count as plenty natural. But he's starting to get the sneaking suspicion he knows what unspoken thing Oz has unleashed here. For him. For _him_. That he would go so far in the first place is … more than humbling. Appalling. 

Terrifying, even.

When Oz turns back to him, that little flicker of earlier humor is gone. He looks — guilty. Ashamed, even, like he's been caught doing something wrong instead of just going to absurd lengths to save Qrow from his curse and his abject stupidity. That can't be right. "Don't look at me like that," he says, hardly loud enough to be heard over the lapping of the waves over a shifted shore.

Qrow's fingers twitch into the sand while he tries to remember his words. "Like what?" A rough, shaky scratch of a noise better suited to his other shape.

Oz closes his eyes, grimacing. Miserable-looking in a way that makes Qrow's chest ache for entirely different reasons. "Like you're afraid of me, Qrow. I couldn't bear—"

Oh. 

_Oh_.

It's easy to forget sometimes, especially when he's all gut-twisted with adrenaline and a hard break and the realization that he's just come frighteningly close to watching his own life come to an abrupt and inglorious end, that Ozpin can be an absolute idiot. Especially just after he's tangled his hands in the strings of fate and _pulled_ and done things that should be wholly impossible, like maybe guilt is his semblance as much as Qrow's bad luck is his. Qrow should know better after all this time. He _does_ know better, but Oz just casually turning back the clock however long he has is just — it's a lot at once.

"You dumbass," Qrow croaks, because he's running on less than fumes at this point and he's got nothing more eloquent to offer, but he means it with all the love and adoration left inside the scarred-up wreckage of his heart. And it takes a lot of effort, and it makes his whole body complain, but he pushes up to his knees and twists and Oz is just about close enough for Qrow to hook his arms over Oz's shoulders when he tips himself in his direction. He's satisfied by the way Oz's pretty eyes widen in alarm, and even more satisfied by the way he instinctively catches Qrow, arms curling around his back and holding tight even as he's toppled backwards into the sand. Whatever self-debasing thing Oz is preparing to say is lost between them, caught up in a startled little sound as Qrow crushes their mouths together.

And the kiss — it's clumsy, really, an awkward knock of teeth and Qrow's nose smudging the lens of Oz's glasses before he gets the angle right, but he's too busy being desperately, desperately relieved to care. Oz's hands fist into the tattered remains of his cape and shirt both, and Qrow's fingers curl into Oz's hair, shaking still from the rush. In the moment, it feels like the best kiss they've ever shared, and Qrow draws it out as long as he can before pulling back just enough to suck down greedy gulps of air. "You're _amazing_ , Oz," he gasps, and presses their foreheads together, not-quite managing to hold back an incredulous laugh. "Fantastic. Incredible. Fucking _magical_."

 _Strong, too_ , Qrow is reminded abruptly, when those arms around him curl tight enough to press on tender ribs, clinging. He grits his teeth and bears the momentary discomfort, rather than chance that stricken look again. Once is enough for a lifetime.

"Not scared of you," he murmurs, just to be perfectly clear, and punctuates the sentiment with another kiss. "Just. Didn't think you'd ever… y'know." The look of naked relief on Oz's face is — kind of a lot, too. A reminder that for all of Qrow's shit luck, he's still somehow lucked out into being _important_ to someone like Oz at all. "Hey … sorry. That looked like it cost you."

One of those hands slips from his back to curve against the side of his face while Oz just — looks at him for a minute, soft-eyed and warm, the worry still hiding in the furrow of his brow. "Losing you would have cost me far more, Qrow."

Qrow glances away, swallowing hard; apparently, it's his turn to feel guilty. "Got careless."

"A good thing I was here then, isn't it?" Immediately, the mood feels lighter. There's an edge of teasing, a hint of challenge in Oz's voice that has Qrow biting back a defeated sigh. Gingerly, a little regretfully, Qrow pushes himself upright on the assumption that Oz doesn't want to spend his post-battle glow accumulating sand in inconvenient places.

"You could've sent Glynda, you know."

Oz sits up, too — but only long enough to shuck his jacket before lying back down with his hands folded behind his head, eyes still on Qrow. "And miss the rare chance to get out? I think not. Besides," and here his smile widens, and his gaze flicks meaningfully from Qrow's dubious face to the patch of sand next to him, "this _was_ to be a date night, was it not?"

"Wasn't gonna miss it for the world. Even if grimm decided to crash the girls' beach day. Speaking of—" Qrow fumbles for his scroll, fires off a quick message to Tai to let him know the danger has passed. Oz waits, wholly unperturbed by the interruption, by the way Qrow hunches over it until he receives a reply tone. He breathes a sigh of relief as he slides the device back into his pocket.

"All is well, I presume?"

"All's well, yeah." Qrow takes a moment to stretch his legs out, carefully searching out the extent of the damage done. His nose hurts like a real bastard, at least one of his knees is going to be complaining loudly for the next day or two, and a few of his ribs have definitely taken a bruising, but he's dealt with worse. Instead of worrying about it, he reaches out instead to pluck the glasses from Oz's nose, searching for a clean-ish section of shirttail to wipe them down with. "You work up an appetite? Depending on how far out you sent your ride, I can have dinner ready in about an hour and a half."

Oz arches a dark brow. "You're not still intending to cook dinner after all this."

Qrow holds Oz's glasses up to the light, frowns, and makes another pass at them. "Started marinating the bird before I left. Seems kinda stupid to let it go to waste." Again, he checks then lenses, then carefully lowers them back onto Oz's face with the most ingratiating smile in his arsenal. "Don't you worry about me, Professor."

Oz huffs a laugh. "You might as well tell water not to be wet."

"Believe me, I've tried. Stuff's more stubborn than you are."

Oz tilts his head, considering. Of course he's not dull enough to fall for the bait, but Qrow hadn't really expected that in the first place, and so he isn't disappointed when Oz rolls onto his side and reaches out to rest his hand on Qrow's leg. "It'll keep."

"So will I," Qrow murmurs, but Oz has that look in his eyes, and Qrow's already resigning himself to whatever alternative Oz has in mind, and he can see that Oz is perfectly aware of that, too. Truthfully, it's sort of a relief — despite the necessary bravado, it's pretty fair to say that Qrow feels like shit that's been set aflame and then hurled from the top of a CCT tower. 

And _that's_ a terrible mental image, even one safely tucked away in the confines of his head. Qrow grimaces as he slowly maneuvers himself down onto his side and leans his chin in his hand. Whatever; if Oz is fine coming back to Vale looking like he lost a fight with a sand dune, then he supposes he can provide a little bit of solidarity on that front. Maybe it'll make up for the fact that he's likely as not to crash completely before they make it back and spend the last part of the flight passed out on Oz's shoulder. "Thanks, Oz."

"But of course." And maybe that might sound flippant to anyone else's ears, but Qrow's seen too much of Oz to pretend it's anything less than a declaration.

In response, Qrow takes the hand resting against his thigh and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of Oz's knuckles. It's easier than saying what he's never been any good at articulating. "So — how long _are_ we stuck out here?"

Oz hums distractedly. 

"Oz?"

"As soon as I fish my scroll from the water, I imagine," comes the eventual quiet, sheepish reply. "Perhaps my entrance was a bit too enthusiastic."

Qrow just breathes a quiet groan into the back of Oz's hand, and decides that he can allow them both to shoulder the blame for _this_ one.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I'm super new to the fandom and eager to get my feets wet, so please feel free to hmu at **celesticidal** on tumblr or _celestiphilia_ on twitter, either to drop prompts of your own or just say hi -- I know absolutely no one on this side of the tracks and would love to hold hands and yell about how beautiful and terrible and staggeringly heartbreaking this ship is. (I've also been piecing together some doofy _a softer world_ cloqwork-flavored remixes, also linked on my tumblr.)


End file.
